


Listen with Your Heart

by BashfulBunny (Aequoreavictoria)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Sexual Assault, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Football, Friendship/Love, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Sherlock, Sexual Abuse, Teen John Watson, Teen Sherlock Holmes, Victim Blaming, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoreavictoria/pseuds/BashfulBunny
Summary: Sherlock BBC Kink Meme PromptTeenager John is sexually assaulted, but no one believes him when he tries to report the incident--no one except Sherlock. Lots of healing and young love. Hurt/comfort. Angst in spades.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/967351) by [LoseInhibition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoseInhibition/pseuds/LoseInhibition). 



“Football Sex Abuse Claims: What's Happened So Far?”  
http://www.bbc.com/sport/football/38090926

“Five Percent of Boys Report Being Sexually Abused in Sport”  
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04hsc1z

“Hey, John! Guess what?! Anderson got caught cheating on the mid-term exam! Just like you thought he would. And without me even saying anything to old Billingsgate about it! Let’s have dinner! Chinese? You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

The speaker was a tall, somewhat gangly teenager with tousled dark hair and a perpetual lop-sided grin on his face, especially noticeable when he was in the company of his best friend and roommate John Watson. He’d taken the stairs up to their dorm room in twos and burst through door with a clatter, so excited was he to share the news of Anderson’s downfall with John. 

John, the boy in the room, couldn’t have been more different in appearance from his friend Sherlock; he was shorter and had neatly trimmed blond hair. His uniform, in contrast to Sherlock’s, was always tidy with shirt tucked in and tie knotted carefully at his neck. Sherlock on the other hand had a rather haphazard appearance, generally consisting of shirt sleeves rolled up, tie looped carelessly−and often crookedly−and trousers slightly too tight for his rapidly growing frame. 

John was lying on his bed, facing the wall when Sherlock burst unexpectedly through their door. He turned his head, startled at Sherlock’s entrance and sat up suddenly, wincing as he did so, to face Sherlock. He seemed disoriented, most unusually for him, and stammered slightly, “Um, ah, actually no, Sherlock, I’m not really hungry right now. I… I… ate already, in the caf’. But that’s great about Anderson!” He made a conscious effort to sound enthusiastic. “You are amazing Sherlock, you always know what’s going on!”

John’s awkward effort to respond caused Sherlock to stop in the doorway and stare at him intently. 

One of the most notable features of Sherlock Holmes was the unusually bright crystal blue of his eyes. Usually, when they were fixed on John they glowed with the luminescence of phosphorus, as though John was the source of some mysterious light visible only to Sherlock. Sherlock’s more typical look was a piercing stare that to any who were subjected to it, felt as though they were being impaled by glacier ice. But it was the latter that, at this moment, he was directing at John. 

John deliberately looked away. “What Sherlock? I’m just a bit tired that’s all! It’s been a long week with the biology mid-term and other stuff…”

Sherlock, trying to hide the anxiety he was beginning to feel at John’s out of character behaviour, observed quietly, “But you are never tired from studying, John, you love science. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Your cheeks are significantly paler than normal, your hair is untidy, you have bruises on both knees, your wrist is sore and your jumper is torn at the neck. Why? What happened?”

John was stubbornly silent.

Sherlock, feeling nowhere near the confidence he was projecting, for he’d never seen John in this mood before, felt out of his depth. Whatever was bothering John was something unrecognizable to him. He needed more information… 

He tried an indirect approach. “You played football then? How was the youth league tryout? Good?”

At this question, what little light had been in John’s eyes died, to Sherlock’s alarm. 

“Um… I’ve changed my mind about the league after all. I… I… think I’ll just stick with the old club, or maybe even take a break from football for a while.”

Sherlock, by now knowing that something was indeed wrong with his friend, advanced slowly to the bed and sat down carefully beside him. He knew he wasn’t good at ‘feelings’, it was one area, of many, that he relied on John’s guidance for. He was in way over his head now and fighting panic; something was very wrong with John and he didn’t know how to help. 

“John?” he asked softly, “Ah, I’m tired too, now that I think about it. Can I lie down with you, you know like we did when we were kids, when Mycroft kicked me out of the house and I used to come to your place? I know it might seem silly but can I, please John?”

He wilted in relief when John nodded silent permission, only to have his stomach clench sickeningly when he saw John’s eyes well up with tears before he turned to the wall again.

Sherlock slid his arms out of his coat and kicked his shoes off. He dragged the blanket from his bed and just like he had in their younger years, crawled onto John’s bed and settled at John’s back, pulling his blanket over them. Once they were covered, he placed a long arm carefully around John’s middle. 

There they lay for a long time, pressed close together, neither speaking. The dull light of the rainy afternoon drained away; giving in to an early darkness which settled around them softly. 

Being close to John, holding him, allowed Sherlock of get control of his fear. He must deduce. Deduce John. Discover for himself what was wrong because for some reason John was unable to tell him. He knew this was the case for normally when John didn’t want Sherlock to know something, he would simply tell him to bugger off. And if Sherlock didn’t, which was usual for he hated John to keep things from him, John would glare at him ferociously but give up because he’d know that Sherlock would find out whatever it was anyway, given enough time. No, this time, Sherlock knew that John was hurt in a way that prevented him from speaking.

His face close to the back of John’s head, Sherlock inhaled silently through his nose… there was no scent of fried chips; the omnipresent odor of the cafeteria, so John had lied about having eaten there… John never lied about anything so an easily uncovered lie about having eaten dinner in the cafeteria was odd and inexplicable... 

John’s hair smelt of rain… and… another scent… Sherlock sniffed carefully… Lacoste Sport… 

That was utterly foreign. Sherlock immediately dismissed the possibility that John had applied it himself. John didn’t use scented products and if he did, it wouldn’t be this one; Sherlock had never smelled Lacoste Sport on anyone under twenty-five. His stomach churned involuntarily and he had to fight down a new wave of fear. He must focus if he was to help John.

John was very still, oddly so. Even in his sleep, and he wasn’t sleeping now, he made small reassuring movements and took unexpected breaths, each of which fascinated Sherlock, who was often awake at night. He had catalogued all of John’s nocturnal habits; lying still and quiet so as not to disturb John’s sleep. To Sherlock’s delight sometimes John even murmured Sherlock’s name in his sleep. 

But right now John was unnaturally motionless. At least, almost motionless… not quite… Was he shivering? No, he wasn’t cold. No, John was trembling, ever so slightly.

Essential Tremor (ET) is a common movement disorder affecting around four out of 100 adults over 40 years of age… Sherlock recited a medical description of the condition in his head. 

But John wasn’t even close to forty years old... so what else might trembling indicate?

Sherlock, with increasing dismay, analyzed the data he had gathered: John was in shock. He had been in a physical altercation with a male older than themselves; likely in his twenties. The struggle had taken place indoors on a hard surface, possibly ceramic tile, based on the fleeting look he’d gotten of the red marks on John’s knees. The man had grasped John’s head, leaving traces of freshly applied shave balm from his hand in John’s hair, and forced him to his knees. At some point during the struggle, John had wrenched his hair from the man’s grip but his assailant had then grasped his jumper at the neck to restrain him. John had torn it trying to escape. The man must have let go of him suddenly for he had overbalanced and landed heavily on the heel of one palm. Sherlock was certain there would be a bruise if John would allow him to see it. 

When he had been able to, John had run from the location of the altercation to their dorm room. This was indicated by the pattern of the grass blades (like those found on a football pitch) stuck to his calves, which Sherlock had observed just before John sat up to speak to him. The dampness of John’s hair, based on the afternoon’s rainfall suggested the location from which he’d run to be approximately four minutes away. Given the fastest that John could run, the distance was roughly equal to that between their dormitory and the football club house. 

Sherlock went rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly but could do nothing to force away the images that arose behind his eyelids. He heard a small moan of pain as his protesting lungs dragged in a gulp of air. It was only when John stirred to ask him hoarsely what was wrong that he realized it had been he who had made the sound.


	2. Chapter 2

“John, how bad is it? … What did he… do?” Sherlock’s own voice was rough.

This time John didn’t pretend to not understand what Sherlock was asking. After a moment’s silence he made an effort to speak but his voice suffocated in his throat before he could form words. The sound came out in a strangled croak.

“It’s okay, John.” Sherlock’s voice, reassuringly gruff and deep rumbled in his ear, “You don’t have to say anything John. I know what to do. I will fix this for you.”

Fear drove the words out of John’s throat in rush, “No! I don’t want anyone to know Sherlock; please don’t do anything, please!” His voice faltered once more and he sounded suspiciously like he was crying.

“But John…”

“No, Sherlock, its nothing. Nothing happened. He heard Coach Jones open the door… so he let me go.” John began to speak quickly in one long, confused, run-on sentence, “Coach saw him Sherlock! He saw him with his trousers and pants down and holding me by the hair. But I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t say anything! I just got up off the floor and pretended nothing was wrong. I couldn’t say a word, I don’t know why! I remember just looking at the door behind Coach, I wanted to get away so badly, that’s all! Just get away. And Coach? I thought he’d say something! Anything! But he didn’t. He just looked right through me like I wasn’t there at all! Like he saw nothing! Maybe he’s right, maybe it was nothing, maybe I imagined it… I don’t know now, I don’t know…”

“John! Stop. You didn’t imagine it. I believe you, I can tell what happened, I figured it out without you saying a word, didn’t I? Right?” 

“Right, right, yeah, right.” John managed, more calmly.

“Of course you wanted to escape John, of course, and you did get away. But it’s not too late to say something now, you still can, I’ll come with you…”

“No!”

Sherlock’s arm tightened at the raw pain of John’s outburst. “Okay, alright, it’s okay,” he said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want−“

“No one will believe me Sherlock, I know it! They will be like Coach, they’ll want to pretend nothing happened. Eddie is a celebrity, he’s a football star, they were so happy to get him here at the school, they won’t want to mess that up now!” John began to sob in earnest now, shaking and shuddering under the strength of his emotions. 

Sherlock was surprised to find he didn’t need help figuring out how to respond to this; somehow it was obvious and perfectly natural. He wrapped his long arms and legs around John like a benevolent spider and buried his nose in the nape of John’s neck and pressed kisses on his skin. He muttered, “I know, it’s okay, I know John, it’s okay now, I’m here, he can’t find you, I’m here, you’re safe John, I’m here. I love you John. Please stop, John, I love you!”

“What−? Oh geez, Sherlock, there’s snot everywhere!” John suddenly stopped sobbing and instead laughed a bit wildly, craning his neck to stare at Sherlock. 

Sherlock watched the expressions chase each other franticly across John’s streaming face. He lifted a corner of their blanket and wiped it clumsily over John’s nose. 

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock lowered his chin uncertainly, “I’m sorry John, I just thought instead of a tissue it would do… but I see now it was−“

“Not that! The other thing… the… um… love thing… you just said…”

Sherlock’s expression was even more abashed, “Oh that. I didn’t think. It was stupid of me, just stupid, I know, and selfish maybe and I’m sorry John… I know it was bad timing, please, just forget I said it.”

John’s tone was as gentle as his touch, if a bit watery still; he lifted Sherlock’s face to look into his eyes, which were glancing around desperately, trying to focus on anything but John, and said, “Shut-up and don’t be ridiculous. I love you too! I have for ages.” 

“Oh!” That was unexpected, thought Sherlock and was silent.

Then quite suddenly exhausted, John lay back down and pulled Sherlock’s arms around him again. He yawned and sniffed, “I’m so tired, I just want to sleep now, just for a little while. I don’t want to think about it anymore. Will you please stay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock, deep in complicated thought about love and John and what it all might mean, roused himself. Now who was being ridiculous?! Where on earth would he go when the centre of his universe was right here with him? But then perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough with John about his feelings… he probably hadn’t. He could fix that later. All he said was, “Yes, of course John,” and tightened his hold once more.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke with a start in the middle of the night. He sat upright looking around him in alarm until he realized that Sherlock was right beside him. Sherlock, his arms flung off by John rising so abruptly, sat up too.

Before he could say anything, John said desperately, “I want a shower! That awful shave balm, I keep smelling it! I feel sick Sherlock!” He struggled off the bed trying to get to the door but before he reached it, he was sick on the floor. He started to cry again, half in anger and half in anguish, and tear at his clothes.

“John, it’s okay, just please wait! Stop, I’ll help you!”

Sherlock scrambled off the bed and helped John pull off his clothes, dropping them onto the mess on the floor. He pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around John. Together they made the short trip to the shared toilet where Sherlock turned on the shower. As soon as the water was warm he gently pushed John, shivering, into it.

“I’ll get you my dressing gown, John, okay? Will you just stay in the shower until I come back?”

John, who was frantically scrubbing at his hair and face, jerked his head up and down, so Sherlock sped back to their room. He gathered the vomit soaked clothes up in the sheet and stuffed the whole mess into a trash bag. Then he swabbed the floor quickly with ammonia from his chemistry kit. Grabbing his dressing gown and a clean towel he was back in the toilet in less than three minutes.

John was standing limply where Sherlock had left him, letting the water pour over him in a steady stream. When he looked up Sherlock’s heart clenched at the sight of his confused, shame-filled eyes. John was trying to stop crying but didn’t seem to be able to. He reached for Sherlock like someone grasping for a life line.

Sherlock was there for him, reaching too, to enfold him in the towel and mutter desperately, “Not your fault John, please, not your fault!”

“He said he’d been watching me, that he knew about me, that I wanted it… But it isn’t true Sherlock, it’s not true! You don’t think that do you?!”

“Of course not, John, No, of course not! No one would think that!”

He was rubbing John’s hair and skin with the towel and tying the dressing gown around him tightly.

“If I knew more about… you know... sex… then maybe I’d handle this better… not be such a baby about it. It’s no big deal right? Nothing happened… I should just brush it off…”

Sherlock’s insides twisted in distress. “No John! That’s not right at all! He attacked you and hurt you and it’s nothing to do with sex, remember? Remember we learned about this sort of thing in sex ed? He was trying to hurt and humiliate you! Anyone would react the way you are, if it happened to them. What he did is awful!”

John nodded hesitantly. “I guess you’re right. I guess so. Thank you Sherlock.”

Sherlock was almost in tears himself; he could feel his throat constricting and his chest tighten horribly. He had never seen John − never imagined he would see John − so forlorn and unsure of himself! John was Sherlock’s anchor, his north star; he should never be this shaken or vulnerable! What had that _absolute bastard_ done to his rock-solid John?!

He pressed a kiss onto John’s shoulder; it was the place on John closest to him. Instead of feeling embarrassing and unnatural, it felt right. John seemed to think so too for he relaxed a little and leaned into him. Sherlock put an arm around him and led him back to their room.

He settled John in his bed this time and set about making tea with his Bunsen burner. Kettles weren’t allowed in dormitories (likely Bunsen burners weren’t either but no one had mentioned it and so why borrow trouble by asking?)

John watched him make the tea. He was starting to look better, Sherlock noted, his face had regained a little colour and his eyes were blue again, rather than the lifeless grey they’d been earlier. His mouth even tilted ever so slightly downward in a suggestion of disapproval when Sherlock asked him which beaker he wanted his tea in, the one Sherlock had last used to melt potassium chlorate or the one used to precipitate arsenic. Sherlock was never so happy to see it.

They settled together on the bed, John resting back against Sherlock’s bony ribcage behind him, and sipped the tea in silence. Before long John had gone to sleep again, his tea finished and the beaker set aside. Sherlock sat motionless, holding him carefully, and allowed himself to descend into deep thought. The beginning of a plan to bring John’s assailant to justice was forming in his brain. It would be finalized by morning at which time he’d ask for John’s permission to put it into action. There was no question that this perpetrator must be exposed. It was simply a matter of how to do it without further harm to John. He nuzzled the top of John’s head with his mouth and resumed staring intently into the darkness of their room.


End file.
